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“All committees are clay in the hands of determined men who fix agendas” #JLCarr

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How Steeple Sinderby Wanderers Won the FA Cup by J.L. Carr

…which is possibly the longest book title I’ve reviewed – and it’s the second book about football on the Ramblings! Or is it?

I read and loved and reviewed Carr’s best-known work, “A Month in the Country” back in 2013. It’s pretty much universally loved, from what I can gather, and is a perfect and evocative novella set in the English countryside in the summer. I wasn’t really aware of any other works by Carr until recently, when I spotted a copy of this one in the charity shop. Alas, I didn’t buy it, and then regretted it. Then I read a review on someone’s blog that made me very keen to read it (and I’m sorry but I can’t remember where…) Then I kept looking for a second hand copy and it never came up and so basically I cracked, and picked up a copy at my local Waterstones. I have no willpower…

“Steeple…” is billed very much as a comedy, and it *is* funny. Narrated by Joe Gidner, who’s been sent down from an ecclesiastical college for an unspecified misdemeanour, the story is set in the small community of Steeple Sinderby. The location is vague, but this is Middle England in the early 1970s and it’s a world which I found very recognisable. The title gives away exactly what the book is going to be about, and Joe (who’s secretary and general factotum for the Wanderers) has been instructed by Mr. Fangfoss, the Chairman, to write a straightforward history of what happened. That history is wonderfully entertaining, enlivened with extracts from the committee minutes, newspaper reports, and possibly suspect recollections. It’s fab!

An Englishman is partial to doom-talk and always has been, as is demonstrated by the nightmare stone carvings all over Barchester Cathedral, and misses it now that the Church doesn’t go in for Religion raw, red and bleeding anymore. Our countrymen appreciate confirmation that Hell yet prevails and that it is well on the cards that they are thither bound.

The idea of training a small local team up to win the biggest football trophy in the land is generated by Dr. Kossuth, a Hungarian refugee who heads the local school. A remarkably inventive man, he comes up with a series of scientific rules which, if applied, should make a team invincible. Enter Alex Slingsby, a teacher at the school who abandoned his footballing career to look after his invalid wife. Alex is in exactly the right frame of mind to take on this kind of challenge, and starts to build a local team. This in itself is hilarious, as they seek out the ideal goalkeeper from a local milkman, and use the tub-thumping sister of the local vicar to lure a former soccer star, languishing with an attack of melancholia, back to the fold. And once the team is built up and trained, the matches begin…

The road to cup fame, of course, is not without its bumps and potholes; and it will take all of the strength, training and willpower of Steeple Sinderby Wanderers to get to that final and win their cup. How they do and what happens afterwards is a real blast and has some wonderful laughs. So on the surface, this might seem like a very different book to “A Month in the Country”; but scratch the surface of the humour and you find there’s an awful lot going on underneath.

For a start, there’s the wonderful portrait of English country life; not the bucolic, pretty tourist type village you might see in adverts or on vapid TV programmes, but a much more realistic take on it.

People don’t know about rural England between the last Mystery Autumn Foliage Coach Trip and the Mystery Blossom Journey into Spring. Mud, fog, dripping trees, blackness, floods, mighty rushing winds under doors that don’t fit, damp hassocks, sticking organ keys, stone floors and that dreadful smell of decay.

There are feuds and infighting, poverty and stupidity; and underlying much of the narrative is a real sense of despair. There is pathos in Alex’s relationship with his wife; in Gidner’s loneliness; and in the lack of purpose in many of the characters’ lives. The modern world is encroaching on Steeple Sinderby, and that place just doesn’t like it much. The book is as much a study of the effect of mass publicity and a sudden spotlight on a quiet little place as anything else, and it’s quite fascinating to see how the locals react.

Carr is a remarkably clever writer, and it’s clear he’s on top form here. He plays with reality, adding in spurious quotes from Pevsner’s guidebooks, inventing histories which involve Steeple Sinderby, creating a locality and a topography for it; all of which obfuscation succeeds in hiding up where the place actually might be! He’s happy to send up football and its fans, local MPs and bigwigs, any of his characters and the general backwardness of the country. His melancholic outlook seeps through and the story ends up being surprisingly moving.

Part of the success of “Steeple…” is of course down to the characterisations. Carr peoples his story with some wonderfully alive characters with the most outlandish names, and yet I came to love them. There’s the wonderfully named Mr. Fangfoss, a local farmer who’s the club’s chairman and has things under control most of the time. He’s not a fan of the modern world, preferring to have out of work people forced to take jobs and certain people castrated (yes, really!); yet you can’t help but cheer him on, whether he’s standing up to a local Lord who wants to come in and make money out of the situation, or a jumped up TV interviewer who tries to get the better of him on live TV and fails. Fangfoss is an unusual character, with a very dodgy home set up, and yet he becomes lovable. Joe Gidner is someone you really want to get to make more of himself rather than just festering away in a village writing verses for greetings cards; there’s the lively Alice ‘Ginchy’ Trigger whose mangled prose is employed to write up the matches in the local paper, and is just too influenced by Thomas Hardy; and of course Alex Slingby, the driving force behind the team who’s so obviously crushed by his love for his wife and her plight. There are so many wonderful players in this book – basically, you need to read it and get to know them for yourself.

via Wikimedia Commons. Although Steeple Sinderby is set in the 1970s, it frankly feels more like the team should look like this…. 😀

“Steeple…” is brilliantly constructed; Carr’s narrative sucks you in and cleverly draws out the strangeness of the story in a way that keeps you hooked. Of course, the British love to see an underdog win (Leicester City, anyone?) and so the plot is an appealing one to start with. But there *is* so much more to this book, from comments on the national character, the national game, and basically life itself. “Steeple…” may *appear* to be a lighter, more superficial story than “A Month…”, but it really isn’t…

But the great and abiding Truth I learnt these weeks was how many people in this world have no Purpose in life, people who live second-hand, sitting all the hours God gives them free of drudgery, staring at either picture papers or TV, waiting like little kids for just another story or for Guidance.

I could say so much more about this book; about its quiet despair at the modern world and its longing for the past; about the sense it gives that life can often be pointless but sometimes magnificent; about the effect the media can have on a place, and the aftermath when the attention has moved on elsewhere; and about the underlying pathos of most human stories. Even such a simple paragraph as Carr/Gidner’s comment on an opposing side reveals much about the need to escape from our everyday lives:

Mostly, they were very respectable men, muffled against the winter day in home-knitted cardigans with large leather buttons; a phlegmatic, shuffling, stamping lot, grey men who had handed over 20p to cram close to grey men, huddling under a grey sky in a grey landscape on their grey way to the town cemetery. Here, lost in the throng, they had bought another identity for ninety minutes. They bellowed disbelief at incompetence, cried scornfully to the great heavens in godlike despair, clamoured angrily for revenge. For 20p they did all this and were not called to account.

(Is that a kind of Utopia? Yes, according to Richard Clay in part one of his documentary on the subject, where he suggests the ritual of Saturday football as a search for the fabled land! But I digress…)

I picked up “Steeple Sinderby…” because I rated Carr’s most famous work so highly, and despite the fact it was apparently about football it sounded – intriguing… It’s more than that, it’s a remarkable piece of art; funny, provocative, entertaining and with surprising depths, it completely absorbed me and left me quite moved at the end. If you want a book that amuses and gets you thinking, as well as giving a glimpse of a kind of small-town England that may well be gone, I recommend you get acquainted with Joe, Alex, Mr. Fangfoss, Ginchy Trigger, Giles the Vicar, his sister Biddy, Sid Swift, Monkey Tonks and all their fellows – you really won’t regret it! 😀

(As an aside, I can’t help wondering if the “Golden Gordon” episode of Michael Palin’s “Ripping Yarns” was just a teeny bit influenced by this book!)

“What’s the difference between a word and a sigh?” #marcchagall

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My Life by Marc Chagall
Translated by Dorothy Williams

When I was rushing through St. Pancras station in the summer, en route to the Midlands and a visit to the Aged Parent and the Offspring, I made time to pop into their little branch of Hatchards. It’s a small but perfectly formed shop which always has interestingly-themed tables, and I rarely come out empty-handed. This occasion was no different, and I was tempted specifically by this lovely Penguin Modern Classics version of Marc Chagall’s “My Life”. It called to me particularly as I was heavily absorbed in Victor Serge’s Notebooks; and Chagall’s book deals also with exile from Russia. So of course I picked up a copy… To be honest, though, you couldn’t really get two more dissimilar books than the Notebooks and this one. In size, writing style and subject Chagall and Serge are complete opposites; though both are very entertaining and enjoyable writers!

Chagall grew up ina a close-knit Russian-Jewish community, and much of the book covers his childhood; his beloved family; his struggles at school; and his growing desire to become an artist. He writes in short, impressionistic and vivid sentences, conjuring small-town life and the warmth of the people around him (as well as a slightly claustrophobic atmosphere which eventually becomes too much). The book is illustrated with some lovely sketches of his life and surroundings, which are a real treat; and we follow Chagall as he takes tentative steps outside the realm of his childhood into the wider world. The artist came from a poor family and is in some ways out of his depth to start with. But he’s driven to make art, and manages to find contacts in St. Petersburg to help him along.

The essential thing is art, painting, a painting different from the painting everyone else does.

Eventually he escapes to Paris, and the chapters set here are particularly evocative. Again, there is the struggle and lack of money, but he mixes with other artists who help. Blaise Cendrars is a kind and constant presence; Apollinaire makes appearances. Chagall gradually starts to make a kind of name for himself but returns to Russia and here we’re treated to a different view of the Revolution; an elliptical one, from a man who does his best to support what’s happening but really only wants to make art.

Can we help it if we can only see world events through canvas, paint, and painting materials, thickening and vibrating like poisonous gases?

Again, there are glimpses; figures like Meyerhold, Lunacharsky, Trotsky and Mayakovsky pass through Chagall’s pages. However, he never hides the harshness of living through these times and dark actions creep into the narrative. The book ends in 1922 when, in a bid for essential stability, Chagall left his homeland for good, living almost exclusively in France until his death in 1985.

Marc Chagall – The Birthday – 1915 (public domain via Wikimedia
Commons)

“My Life” is a striking book; the prose initially perhaps seems a little brief, stacatto, but as your reading ear attunes to this type of writing it becomes very compelling. And the line drawings complement the story beautifully, their economy of line matching that of the narrative; both nevertheless draw you into Chagall’s world, creating a very moving experience.

So my impulse purchase at St. Pancras station turned out to be one that I’m very glad I made. It gives a privileged glimpse into the life and art of a great artist (some of whose works I’ve seen in the flesh in recent years), as well as revealing the artistic view of the Russian Revolution. Highly recommended!

Summer’s End…

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To be honest, I’m not exactly sure which months constitute summer nowadays in our damaged climate; but I always consider the end of that season to be the time when I go back to work after the long mid-year break, and despite having to do that, I am fond of autumn… I generally try to fit in more reading during August while I don’t have the daily distraction of the paying job, traditionally including at least one chunkster, and I’m pleased that this year was no different.

For once, I actually made (modest!) reading plans and actually stuck to them! Admittedly, I was pretty sure I wanted to read the books in question, and they fitted in with a couple of reading challenges. So in the spirit of Andy Miller (!) here is an image of what I read during August (and bear in mind that there still may be reviews to follow as I’m always a bit behind):

I was particularly pleased (as I made fairly obvious!) to read Victor Serge’s Notebooks – strongly tipped for my read of the year. But there wasn’t really a dud amongst them; even the one that made me pause a bit (“The Marquise of O-“) was strange and interesting, and very cleverly written. And I was really happy about getting back to reading so many women writers, especially Women in Translation; this is a wonderful initiative, set up and championed by Meytal Radzinski, and I hope to keep taking part.

So – onward into September and autumn. Do I have plans? Maybe – above are some possibles…  I’m continuing to make a dent in the review pile (all of which are books I actually *want* to read); and I have amassed quite a selection of non-fiction works I hope to get to soon-ish as well (including all the pretty Fitzcarraldo editions which may have made their way into the house after their recent sale – here they are…)

Plus there’s an awful lot of classic crime lurking and any number of charity shop finds, as well as some interesting Russians from Glagoslav. I’m not going to make any specific plans, however, because with work pressures I want to leave myself as free as possible to follow the reading muse. I’m currently in the middle of the wonderful book below by Ian Penman from Fitzcarraldo Editions, but after that who knows? Watch this space!! 😀

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